Hell's Café
by riant ragdoll
Summary: Damien had been forced to spend over 19 years delivering orders to the wretched souls of Hell, and he's just about had enough. AU, Dip, Ongoing.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **South Park does not belong to me.

(**_Review_, **if you'd like. I really appreciate them.)

* * *

_I._

It had been nineteen years working in an one-man café. The job had, thus far, never gotten any bit easier for Damien.

He had been appointed to the job by the Twelve Executive Demons (_T.E.D_), a dozen sorted men who appointed others' to their miseries. His placement had been selected based on his exceeding dislike for sugary foods, flashy colors, and the disgusting idea of answering to customers.

He worked in a _chain_, by all literal and metaphorical standards. Thousands of shops that resembled his own, down to a tiny crack in the corner of the room or the yellowed napkins in the pantries, spiraled on through the Land of the Damned. They stood so closely to each other that they resembled a single, linked entity; if viewed from the outside, the connected string of shops appeared as a dwindling snake.

Work started every day at exactly 5 am. With each morning, he would find a familiar mass of clothes thrown miserably across the back of a chair.

Adorning his body in an unwashed, wrinkled appearance sagged a baby-blue suit. Sticking out from beneath the ends of his pant legs were two auburn shoes; they had the addition of tiny sunflowers, a rainbow of beads and four tickle-me-pink bows. As a final touch, placed on top of his head sat a spindly top hat. It held such mystiques that ranged from plastic fruits, to brilliant chrysanthemums, to pieces of peppermint candy- all latched onto one billowing platform.

If his diabetes-inducing uniform had failed in utterly nauseating Damien, the appearance of his café was sure to wrap up any loose hope. The fluffy interior and exterior of it radiated with easter colors and cotton-candy like rays, conspiring together for a saturated doom.

Framed pictures lined the walls from top to bottom, glued onto the surface and displaying a collection of sleeping kittens, smiling children, and laughing circus clowns. Pinned to the side of the counter, twenty identical portraits of him hung beneath a bold text that spelled out: **Employer of the Month**_. _Each photograph was a picture stolen from his life down on earth, a High School Senior photo that had likely been torn right out of an outdated yearbook.

If he were to quit his job and run far, far away from it all, his punishment would be merciless. He would be sentenced to a year's time in the Torture Chambers, strung upside-down and helpless, horrible and unimaginable things done to him.

By that point, Damien had already spent a total of four years in the Torture Chambers. The scars, rigid, ugly, consuming his very body, assumed themselves as his daily reminders. The nightmares- screaming, squelching, _terrible_ illusions- were only mere burdens.

Damien, by most standards, could be viewed as an adequately attractive man. His arms and legs were developed into two sets of muscular outlets, achieved from a certain fondness to brawl when he'd been alive. He had a mop of hair that shone like a nest of raven's feathers, combed forwards from an oily part and ruined by his perpetual hat hair. Two crimson eyes glared out from beneath his frock, sinisterly open in their destitution.

A set of soot wings jutted out from two slitted holes in the back of his uniform, limply hanging around his crooked spine. Their ugliness and uselessness marked him, snatching him up from the faceless mass and labeling him with the insult he fully deserved.

He was _King of Crows_- scraggly, thieving, and forcefully succumbed to Man's every wish and command.

After a full day's work, Damien would leave his establishment and feel no pride or empowerment for his time.

He went to bed pessimistic and miserable. He would awake in the same state.

Each day merged into another- an unwavering, sluggish trail into eternity.

_II._

Damien could no longer feel time that extended out of a single day's limit. He knew what weeks, and months, and even years had at one time represented; he could even hold a little recollection on how they'd felt. But by nearly twenty years of damnation, the only way he could keep track of the days was by the strength of the scent and how sizzling and crimson the weather was.

Today, it seemed to be somewhere in the middle; it was not especially excruciating in heat, nor did the air wreak too much of rotting corpses. The café's clock had just signaled that it was three in the afternoon, sending forth the familiar cuckoo-bird for its hourly job.

At some point in the night, a sticky, red substance had been poured all over the floors, cabinets, and counter tops. Damien neither knew nor cared what the substance was; whether it was blood or cranberry juice was not of his concern.

What he_ did _find appalling about it was that it wastherein the first place, though. He would not have his colorful, joyous prison-cell be fixated by any mess, unless it had been otherwise caused by him.

As Damien scrubbed harshly at his tainted sunshine-yellow counter tops, the shop's doors timidly opened. After finishing up with an especially-obnoxious splotch, he went to prepare himself for another shady customer.

Instead, what he saw surprised him.

Standing slightly askew in a cherry oak door frame, there stood an angel. This angel, illuminated by the flaming sins outside, stood in perfect stillness. Two sturdy fingers stroked gingerly at an extended wing, toying with the pastel feathers beneath. As the angel dipped to the side to shut the door behind him, Damien could see that they only one bore one.

With a drop of perspective, Damien realized he wasn't entirely _sure_ whether the angel was a man or a woman. Thankfully though, his suspicions were put to rest when the angel moved to speak.

"Hello."

Definitely male. His voice hit a low bass, yet also seemed to catch itself and blunder into a serene, lightweight, _pure _feeling.

Damien rose two disheveled eyebrows, before wordlessly motioning a callused hand towards a table. The table he asserted towards was already set with a silken table clothe and a vase of fake roses strewn carelessly into the middle.

Damien's conscious bloomed with hostile thoughts, all of which mocked the very man who had just stepped through his doors. Everything about him screamed '_goody-two shoes_'; if not his unstained, carefully-styled suit, then for his big, blooming bow tie tied securely to his slender neck.

_Nobody_ wore bow ties in Hell- and if they did, they sure didn't for _long_.

His mommy had to be proud of him. Such a good boy she'd raised- gone up to Heaven, and dressed up so well for the occasion, too. Damien wondered if she had tried to make him stay up there in the safe haven, nestled away in their big home filled with chocolate chip cookies and cute little kittens and everything else God considered _Good_ and _Holy_.

He also disliked his hat. It was stupid. It was too large for his small, round face, and it was putrid in both color and shape. There were no other reasons as to why Damien despised it so, but he concluded that it definitely had to be the most _stupid_ thing about the angel.

It was when Damien's thoughts turned cold and cruel- _sliding a butter knife into the man's jugular, stuffing his fingers into the blender, one by one_- that he decided to put his wandering mind to rest. Damien glanced back over at his customer, inquisitive this time in his glower.

The angel had been resting beside the rose-strewn table, waiting quietly for the other to subside from their fantasies.

"What do you want?" Damien inquired, lifeless in tone.

The angel immediately perked up, his answer rolling off the flick of a pink tongue.

"A strawberry cupcake and a cup of earl gray tea, if you could." He earnestly commanded to, a strong accent twisting seamlessly around his request. He was dreadfully British, Damien realized; a stereotype trapezing around on two blessed legs.

"Alright," Damien started, "You ever been to one of Hell's cafés, kid?"

He shook his head with a shy grace, a tumble of lightweight strings set to fly in golden brilliance.

"No, sir."

"Rule number one of these places: You always get the opposite of what you want." Damien turned, opened a drawer, and pulled out a bright, orange mug. "Does an old, moldy muffin and a watered down cup of coffee sound good to you?"

"Not really... No, sir."

"_Good_."

Damien rummaged around in the cupboards for a long-forgotten muffin. Pulling out the crumbling treat, he first blew off a living, squirming beetle, before searching for a suitable abode for the pastry.

When he had settled the muffin down on a plate too floral and too artistically frivolous for its inhabitant, Damien went to pour the cup of coffee. In a thoughtless addition, he threw a sarcastic dollop of whipped cream on top.

At last, he felt completely content by just how shitty the two appetizers came together. Quickly transporting the two entries to the angel, Damien groggily escaped back to the confines of his station.

They were both anxiously silent, both still uneasy in the other's presence. The angel inspected his muffin, trying and failing to hide his distaste.

"You have a nice, um... Uniform." He acknowledged, after the quiet had dragged on for far too long.

"It's very, err... _Cute_."

Damien glared back at him.

"Who are you, and why the hell are you here?"

He jumped visibly in his chair, before glancing up at him with a wide-eyed expression. There was a smooth feel to it, though, and his face slowly split into a nervous, barely-there smile.

"Pardon?"

"I don't normally get angels. You could say it's a bit of a_ rare_ occurrence, this being _Hell_, home of _sin_, and all." Damien leaned over, his brows furrowing into a look of territorial aggression.

"So, what's _your_ story."

The angel smiled a smile that could light up an executioner's chair. Damien could feel the drop in his stomach, his head swimming in woozy intoxication.

It had been so _long_ since he had seen one of the _Good_.

"My name's Pip." He began, after folding his hands delicately into his lap. "I work as a psychiatrist. While most people in my line of work stick to helping people up... Well, _There_, I'm trying to _widen_ my perspective. I feel that the real people who need someone to talk to, are the people down here."

"You ever wish you hadn't decided to work down here?" Damien went to ask after pausing for a moment to think.

"No, not at all." Pip answered. Damien couldn't tell if it was his honest opinion; his platter-sized eyes kept getting in the way of inspection. "There are so many interesting souls down here, it's just my pleasure to help them in any way that I can. It'sespeciallyenduring to help them when the D.A.E. comes up."

Damien cushioned his jaw, slouching lazily out onto the counter top.

"Do you identify as a man or a woman, Pip?" Damien questioned, blunt and rude in his search for answers.

"A man, please, if it'd be alright with you."

"You a fag, then?"

He re-positioned his too-big hat.

"No, I don't think so."

"You don't _think_ so?"

"Well, I can't say I've ever put much thought into it."

His hat tumbled into his face once more; he pushed the accessory away from his soft eyes.

"Well, why do you only have one wing?"

"Oh, for reasons."

The stiffness in his answer told Damien to not ask anything else on the topic, and the finality of it took him by surprise. Damien felt as though he should be offended by Pip's refusal to play along with his little game; after all, he was one of the few guests he had actually cared to know more about.

But instead of anger, delight bubbled up Damien's throat, his laughter feeling foreign on his crawling tongue. He cackled raspingly and deliriously, wretched even in his joy.

"It's a relief knowing even angels and members of the Good have things they don't want to talk about."

Damien explained at Pip's inquiring expression, gripping at his shuddering chin in glee.

"Even _you_ have things you want to hide."

When Damien had regained enough of himself to slide his attention back to the angel, Pip only nodded at him in means of response. Cherry lips quirked up in a friendly gesture, as though understanding Damien's spontaneous good mood.

Pip gave his poor excuse for a meal one last withering stare- trying desperately to enjoy it, and failing yet again. Scooping up his dishes, he delivered them to the counter top and handed them to Damien.

"That'll be five bucks." Damien notified him, serious and hard in expression.

Pip looked wearily down at him, before fiddling obediently around in his pant pocket. He paid him in cash, pulling out a ten dollar bill and sliding it over the counter to Damien. He informed him to _'keep __the change'_.

After courteously bobbing his head at Damien and awkwardly raising a hand to wish him off, he slid away from the counter top and away from Damien's probing eyes.

Without another word or pleasantry, the man strolled out from the shop. His one-winged figure was soon swallowed by the depths of Hell, the red hands of fire entangling themselves around him.

_III._

It had been approximately six days- maybe a month- since Damien had first seen Pip. The angel had now almost abandoned his thoughts, leaving him only a subtle taste of ambiguity.

Damien wondered if he could've been better accommodated with Pip's character. He was sometimes left to think about the mysterious details that were the angel's job, his clients, his life- and his death. In these inquiries, he was disgusted by the interest and pleasure he took from them.

Damien needed a _purpose_ in his afterlife. A _story_; something with a beginning, a middle, a climax, an end. He ached for a big finale, a long-desired completion.

It had been nearly two decades since he had been sent down to Hell, a span that had only driven him into deeper sin and insanity. The little joys that he found were all that kept him from losing it entirely, and he wasn't about to go letting them pass him by.

The current day was slow, and pitifully humid.

So far, two customers had arrived at his cafe. At around noon, an overweight man had waddled in through the doors and greedily ordered a chocolate milkshake. He had been given a salad. In the time he was there, the man proved himself boisterous, eager, and much too loud for Damien's liking.

His second customer had come in approximately fifteen minutes after the man had left, and had immediately gone to pull up a chair and place it inches away from the counter top Damien lounged behind. She adapted a look of absolute control, her chin set high and her eyes looking defiantly at whatever happened to be in front of her.

She was still in Damien's presence at this time.

She had introduced herself as Mary. Whether this was her real name or a fake one disinterested Damien. She had come in asking for a salad, and had been given a melted chocolate milkshake.

They- or rather, s_he-_ discussed people she had met over the three years she had thus far spent in Hell, nasty and excited about the details. She was always exhilarated when she told her stories, and tended to be quick in her speech and naturally flirtatious in her gestures.

"So, you've heard all about me." She spoke after a solid hour of her rambling. Her voice was low, and deliciously rasping.

"Uh-huh." Damien breathed, nonplussed.

"_Sooo_." She drawled, leaning forwards. "Tell me something about _you._"

"Something about me, huh?" He repeated in a dull entrancement, tracing knives on the café's counter top.

"C'mon, there has to be _something_ you want to talk about."

Damien paused, taking a long moment to think.

"Hey, how many angels do you say you've seen since you've been down here in Hell?" He finally inquired, bringing his red gaze down to meet hers.

"That's a strange question." Mary remarked. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm just wondering, is all."

"Well, I can't say I've ever _seen_ one before."

She stopped, bringing a finger up to her lips. Damien stared at her, curious in his expression.

"But I have heard of an one-winged angel, yes."

Damien moved closer to the counter.

"What a poor boy." She sighed, pawing wistfully at her cheek.

"How do you know him?" Damien asked, interest evident behind his voice.

Mary looked up at him, mildly taken aback by his excitement.

"A good friend of mine _knew_ him. You know how it is." She informed him, cackling lightly at her own words. "But they had a falling out a few months back. He was too nice for her, I suppose."

She then let silence consume them both. Damien waited.

"Well?" Asked Damien.

"What more do you want to know?"

Damien couldn't answer this, because she had soon enough started up again on her own accord.

"He's such a silly child- _much_ too kind for his own good. But out of all the angels that could have had his job, I'm glad that it turned out to be him. Nothing gets that boy down!"

She giggled at this, clinking a nail against the milkshake's glass.

"He's such a nice kid. I bet even if the sickest piece of shit that ever lived walked up to him and punched him right in the face, he'd just look up and smile and say: 'Good morning, sir. How are you feeling today?'. There's nothing that can get that kid down, nothing he wouldn't do to make you feel nice and warm and at home."

As her story continued, her tone seemed to collapse in onto itself. The normal tingling that erupted through her cords had ceased, absolving her into just another, average Hell-seeker; nothing about her differentiated her from the other depressive masses, now.

Damien looked up then, her voice causing something in his chest to become unrest. Her eyes had attached themselves to the base of her milkshake, a subtle mixture of sadness and hopelessness beneath her grime-colored gaze.

Damien was about to ask about her sudden change in mood, but in just another second she was speaking and moving just as fluently as she had before.

"I think that you've kept me long enough." She bubbled. "I have much to do- you know, lots to accomplish in the eternity that I'll be down here for."

Before Damien could move to say anything else to her, she had already escaped halfway across the room. She rose a hand.

"_Toodle-oo_, Damien. I'll be sure to inform Pip of your interest."

And then the door shut behind her, extinguishing her from sight- but not from mind.

_IV._

_You've been here before. The cold, metal walls that surround you have not been forgotten to your wandering touch; you feel it in the tips of your fingers, the corners of your mind, the heart of your dreams._

_You're ten years old, and you already know true pain. You feel your flesh grow numb, and you feel the sickening sense of claustrophobia sink into your chest. The air stinks from gunfire and sewage drop-offs. _

_You've found yourself hidden away in your neighborhood park; even there, you're far from safe. But there's no where else to go, and there's no where else you can hide. _

_He beat you again, today. You can still see and feel the gash in your right arm from where he hit you with the beer bottle._

_You want to run away._

_You want to find help._

_But you can't. _

_The softness of your mother keeps you close to her, always returns you home. The sweet notes to her delicate voice, the tingles that slide down your neck when she brushes her fingers through your hair. You could never leave her behind with that monster, left to wither away with the life she somehow connected herself to. You could never abandon her like that._

_But that sure as Hell didn't mean you couldn't hide from it, either._

_You're crying. You're ugly when you cry; maybe that's why nobody ever approaches you, nobody ever asks you if you need help. When you cry, your face contorts into the face of an indistinguishable, misshapen creature. You can't help it- the more you cry, the louder you scream. But the louder you scream, the harder you cry._

_You hear footsteps. You flee further into the tube, and escape further into yourself. Behind blood-blurred eyes, you can see a pair of sky-blue shoes stop outside of the wretched spot you've found yourself in, over and over again. You push yourself up against the end of the tunnel, curling yourself into a ball and clenching your eyes shut. But it's of no use, now._

_Because all you can see are those shoes, and the vapid color of the unsoiled sky._

"_Are you lost?" You hear someone ask._

_It takes a moment for you to respond. _

"_No." _

_You're not entirely sure if that's the truth._

_The stranger keeps quiet. You expect him to leave now, and get as far away from you as he can. But instead, he stays._

_He crouches to the ground, and you can see a buttoned-up shirt that matches the color of his shoes. He opens up a paper bag, and removes something from within it._

"_Here." He says, and his voice is kind. He reminds you of your mother, and it might be for that reason that you uncurl yourself and slowly inch towards the opening of the tunnel._

_At the end of the metal tube is a small cake, wrapped in a thin sheet of paper and thoughtfully placed on top of an embroidered napkin. You still can't see the man, but you can now observe two youth-filled hands that he has folded against a paper bag._

"_I don't like sweets." You warily come to inform him._

_For a long time, he does not stir. He sits outside of the tube, and his hands stay clenched on the folded paper bag. He does not retrieve the small cake from you. He only crouches outside of your hiding spot, and thinks._

_Finally, you watch as he puts his hand into his pant pocket. First he pulls out a rectangular card, then he removes a well-worn pencil. On the back of the rectangular card, he proceeds to write out a string of commands. After he has finished, he carefully slides the card next to the cake._

"_Feel free to call me any time."_

_You retrieve the card, and you see that the man has written down his phone number on it. You look up at him just in time to catch a warm smile that hides behind the cold, metal walls of your prison. _


	2. Chapter 2

_I._

Sweat rolled off Damien's brow and dripped down onto his slick, sunshine yellow counters.

Even by Hell's notoriety, today was a _hot_ day. Damien watched in disillusion as his own skin melted off in stringy, milky-white goop. Swirls of puddles and fire blew up around him, and he wasn't sure if it was the heat that was making everything spin and blur so much or the lack of sleep on his part.

Nobody sane would ever go out to the cafés in weather like this. Then again, a lot of inhabitants of Hell weren't exactly known for their sane personalities. Damien sat behind his counters, absentmindedly fanning himself with a stray doily. A pile of used doilies were thrown beside him, set into a clumsy pile and already seeped through with his sweat.

Phrases such as '_Burn in Hell_' or '_Hot as Hell_' were hardly as humorous and catchy as they used to be when Damien was sitting there in Hell, feeling his blood literally boil beneath his skin. Damien let out a long moan, resting a slick palm against his forehead.

As soon as he allowed this bit of anguish out, his shop's doors swung open and emitted a jittering of bells. Before seeing the new occupant, he growled out in a heat-stricken means of protest.

Damien looked up, albeit grudgingly. He groaned again, after catching the sight of golden hair and paisley brown slacks standing eagerly in his door frame.

Today was _not_ the day for the angel's trivial mannerisms, whether or not Damien had not-so-secretly been anticipating the man's return since first meeting him. He backed farther into the boxed off area behind his countertops, trying in vain to escape from the inevitable.

A different bow-tie was clipped around Pip's neck today, this time a dusty pink color. Damien swore, if that man came within two feet of him, he was going to rip that tacky thing off his neck and burn it. The eternal flames of damnation were good for shitty fashion sense, at least.

"Hello, Damien!" He chirped, billowing towards him with a clipboard and pen in hand.

"Did Mary tell you to talk to me?" Damien asked promptly. He recoiled even farther back into his sunshine-yellow cage, this time putting the cash register in between him and his overly-happy customer.

Pip beamed, admitting with absolutely no control on his behalf: "Mary said to keep her identity anonymous."

He abruptly paused after saying this, covering his mouth with an abashed hand.

"Wait, that just spoiled the whole secret, didn't it?"

"Yes." Damien answered.

"Whoops." Pip timidly looked up at him, tucking his clipboard beneath his arm. "Can you keep that one a secret for me, ol' chap?"

Damien glowered down at his innocent plea, before defiantly crossing his arms in front of him.

"Great! That would be a _huge_ help for me, thank you." He tittered back in his over-the-top British accent, before placing his well-shined shoes securely onto the café's floor.

"So, are you ready for a few questions?"

Damien quirked up an unruly eyebrow.

"_Questions_?" Damien asked, a hint of distrust already snagging around the word.

"Yes, to get to know you better." Pip explained. "You don't have to answer if the question makes you feel uncomfortable. It will only take a few moments, I promise."

Damien paused, glaring at Pip with all of the intensity he could bring himself to muster. He felt the bottom of his eye twitch, catching sight again of the pink bow tie matched with the excited grin pasted on Pip's face. His fingers spasmed, and he only barely caught himself as he began to reach up towards the fabric atrocity.

"... _Proceed_." He finally uttered, pulling his hand back to his side.

"What was the cause of your death?" Pip ascertained, readying his pencil.

"Pass." Damien answered with no otherwise thought on the matter.

"Would you say that you like it in Hell?"

"Pass."

"What do you do in your free time?"

"Pass."

"What's your favorite color?"

"Pass."

Pip set down the clipboard, clacking it against the counter top. Despite the obvious amount of hostility that had been thrust his way, he appeared as relentlessly chipper as always. This only did _more_ to infuriate Damien.

"_What_?" Damien seethed. "There are _thousands_ of different colors to choose from. Just thinking about it is _stressful_ for me."

"How about primary colors, then? That's only three options for you to pick from." Pip helpfully supplied, the hostile tone flying over him.

Damien flipped his hands up in the air, breathing an irritable breath out through his hooked nose.

"Oh, I guess I was just never good with handling tough, life-changing decisions such as _this, _you know?"

The brilliant sparkle in Pip's eyes were not lost on Damien. He inwardly cursed at the man's talent to rip through him and uphold the facts that_ didn't matter at all. _

"Let's work our way up, then." Pip decided, and he took a moment to steal a chair from a close table. Once he'd returned and placed himself comfortably in it, he swiftly went on to continue with his list of questions.

"How are you feeling today?" He asked, and he had dropped any otherwise professional note in his voice. He was offering to him his friendship, and the very idea of it nauseated Damien.

"Apprehensive."

"Why's that?"

Damien flinched away from the actual confusion that swirled behind his gaze. He was quick to regain himself, though. Setting a firm hand down in front of Pip's looming glance, he attempted to regain control over the situation.

"_Sir_," He began, the word dripping with venom, "You do know that you're not allowed into one of Hell's cafés without ordering something first, _right_?"

"Oh." Pip hummed, staring down into his lap. "Is that so?"

"_Yes_." Damien practically growled, "So, whether you'd like to order something or _get out of my café_, the choice is completely up to you."

Pip whistled, looking first up towards the ceiling, and then down to the showcase that showed an assortment of the café's foods. Within the glass, a wide selection of delectable treats lay, sparkling in a sugar and egg encrusted glory. Damien watched as Pip's eyes sparkled at their appeal, before he started back up and looked adoringly at him.

"_Oo_! Can I have that blueberry tart? It's the most delicious thing I've ever seen!"

Damien nodded, before disappearing into the room behind him. A minute later, he returned, dangerously dropping a china plate onto the counter top.

Pip stared.

"That's a rotting piece of beef." Pip observed, flinching away as the stench caught up with him. Damien didn't move, staring down appreciatively at his work.

"So it is." He sniffed.

Pip looked up at him, his discomfort evident. "But, the tart..."

"Remember the rules? I can't give you what you actually want." Damien reminded.

"It's just in the display case, though. Can't you just reach in and take-"

"_Pssst_." Damien interrupted, dipping his hand into the container. Pip curiously peered into it, shifting his head down and covering up his blue eyes with a flurry of yellow bangs.

At first, he couldn't see Damien's hand. Suddenly, a set of fingers forced their way into the front. Pip watched in puzzlement as Damien peeled the display off of a plain, empty glass container.

"Well, that's certainly clever!" Pip observed, staring at the sheet of paper dangling from Damien's fingers. A selection of meringue cookies, lemon strudels, and glazed blueberry tarts were all painted expertly onto its surface.

Damien shrugged, swiping his sleeve across his forehead. Pip seemed distraught by the heat as well, his normally puffy hair limp with strain and sweat.

Pip grabbed up his pen, and Damien watched as he gleefully wrote '_Clever_' onto his pad. Damien snorted, dryly amused.

"It wasn't my idea for that blasted sticker to be put there." Damien corrected, pointing towards Pip's new addition. "The place came with it. Damned thing has been the reason for a lot of people's troubles, too- some of these dumb bastards come in and almost _pee_ themselves at the sight of that kind of food. I wish I could just take the thing down for good."

"Why can't you?" Pip asked, his eyes glittering. Damien couldn't exactly place the look Pip was giving him, but he didn't like it.

"It's in the rules. You can't remove anything in Hell's cafés, or add anything to it. It sucks, too." Damien turned at this, eying the mass of photographs behind him.

Pip nodded, before erasing the word '_Clever_'. Instead, he wrote down '_Caring of others_'.

"_What_!" Damien growled, fury rising in his ragged voice. He jabbed a finger at the phrase scrawled across the sheet of paper, the sun-burnt knuckle shaking in Pip's face.

"What?" Pip snapped out in surprise. He stared at the other man, his face vulnerable with shock.

"I'm not... _I'm_..." Damien sucked in a breath, bringing his hand to rest against his temple. He rubbed circles and patterns into the flesh, soothing out screwed-up muscles.

"I do not _care_ about others. I just find it _annoying_, is all. You know, like the café and this shitty uniform weren't enough as it is. It's just annoying, is all."

Pip dipped down his expression, silently accepting. He put a cross over the offending phrase, but didn't otherwise erase it.

"I'm sorry for the misinterpretation." Pip said, and his voice was calm and fluid. "I won't jump to such conclusions in the future, alright?"

Damien paused, before giving one curt nod in response. Pip supplied a timid smile, before tapping his fist against the pad of paper.

"That's brilliant, then." Pip smirked, his eyes creasing. "Shall we continue?"

A scream burst from somewhere outside of the café, echoing throughout the vibrant decors of the shop. Neither were outwardly surprised by the cry.

Damien grunted. "Before I lose my patience."

"How long have you been down in Hell?" Pip asked, fumbling slightly with his pen. Damien peered at him, before giving him a half-hazard shrug and glancing towards the other corner of the room.

"I don't know, about fifteen years now?" He said, thinking aloud. "What year is it?"

"It's 2022, as of about two months ago."

He froze, suddenly overwhelmed with a realization.

"Well, actually." Damien continued, after a minute or so of thought. "It's been nineteen years since I died. It'll be twenty years in a little less than half a year."

Pip wrote hurriedly in his notebook.

"Are you sure about that?" He asked, breathlessly.

"Yeah."

"Do you think you'll be signing up for the DAE?"

Damien looked into Pip's face, the expression there scrunched up with both hope and wonder. He glanced aside, poking a finger against the brim of his hat. He silently wished he was allowed to remove it from its suffocating encirclement around his head; then again, he doubted the action would have overall helped cease his torment.

"Probably not." Damien admitted, flicking up his hat and shirking off the idea in a quick flurry of indecision.

"Are you sure about that? You can only take the test every ten years. It wouldn't hurt."

"I don't feel like it."

Pip deflated, blowing a puff of air through pouted lips. "Well, alright then. Your choice."

Damien softly hummed in response, drumming his fingers across his counter top.

"Well..." Pip looked out the window, in which a darkness had recently fallen. "I think I should head back up."

"Oh."

"But, it was wonderful speaking with you!"

"Uh-huh."

"I hope we can do it again sometime soon."

"Well, don't strain yourself."

Pip smiled at him, clasping his hand onto Damien's unaware one.

"Don't worry. It's not at all a problem."

_II._

When Pip had told him he'd be seeing him sometime soon, he didn't expect it to be the _very next day._

Admittedly, Damien had been curious about Pip. He had even wished to be able to see him again. But that didn't at all mean that he wanted to have him _always_ in his presence; he just couldn't deal with that. The whole ordeal just made him feel highly claustrophobic and overall _uncomfortable_.

So when Pip walked through his doors the very next day, Damien only felt exasperation at his return.

Exasperation that soon turned to resentment.

Resentment that soon turned to outrage.

Outrage that soon turned to _Unholy Devil I Will Fucking Strangle This Boy If He So Much As Breathes Another Breath Of My Air._

It took approximately an hour and six minutes to create this state of homicidal rage within him.

"Alright, now what to do you see in this picture?"

Pip held up a sheet of paper, a splotch of ink covering the front of it.

"_A gun._"

"And what does that tell us, Damien?"

"That I really, _really_ want to shoot your brains across the floor right now."

Pip daintily set down the piece of paper, before folding his hands in front of him.

"Damien, what's the matter?"

"_You're_ what's the matter."

Pip rose a pair of eyebrows. "I'm sorry, am I doing something wrong?"

Damien groaned.

"Yes,_ you are!_ I can't _stand_ your stupid existence, and your dumb britishness, and the awful way you dress! How many god damned bow ties can a man even own!?" Damien yelled, asserting each point by smacking his hand loudly against the counter top.

"If you actually want to know the answer to that, Heaven offers an infinity amount of bow ties to those who are interested..." Pip muttered, pulling bashfully at his brand-new, green accessory.

"An infinity supply of bow ties?!" Damien yelled, "Is that what they give you if you spend a life time being a little... A little fucking goody two shoes?!"

"Well, if you're especially nice and holy and whatnot, you can be awarded _more_ than an infinity of bow ties." Pip offered.

Damien glared at Pip with pure, glorified anger.

"What the _fuck_ does '_more than infinity_' even _mean_!?"

Pip thought for a moment, and then shrugged.

Damien deflated, nestling his head into his hands. He massaged tenderly at his face, letting a string of breath waft out from him.

"Just get out of my café." He hissed out from his hands, his calloused palms muffling the hostility in his voice.

"Are you sure?" Pip asked.

"Yes, I'm _pretty_ fucking _sure_!" Damien groaned, snapping back up to glower at him. The _goddamn_ nerve of this kid astounded him; how didn't he understand that he wasn't at all welcome there?

"Why?"

"Because you're the biggest pain in my ass I've ever had to deal with in my long, unforgiving excuse for a life- _and_ afterlife."

"Just because I'm trying to help you?"

Damien stared at him, his red eyes squinted in offense. What he was getting from Pip was as far from help as absolutely _possible;_ it was as though someone had handed him a brain-dead four year old and asserted the decision by calling it '_creative therapy_'.

On the other hand, that didn't change the fact that Pip was the first person to even _try_ to help him in a very, very long time. And while that did intrigue him, it didn't at all enthuse him to allow Pip to _continue_.

"No, because you're really fucking _annoying,_ and I think I might kill you if you stay any longer."

Pip nodded. "Yes, that's just how you're supposed to feel at first."

Damien looked at him in angry astonishment, banging his palms down onto the countertop.

"_What?!_" He shrieked, every bit of anger from the afternoon catching up with him.

"It's only natural." Pip told him, tapping his fingers against a different notepad for that day. "You're unused to human care, and you don't know how to handle it in a healthy manner yet."

Damien let out an exaggerated sigh, pulling at a grasp of black, ink-blotched hair. "You're not being caring! You're just being an _irritating_ waste of _space_!"

"I'm just trying to understand you, Damien."

"What even makes you think you could ever understand anything about me?!" Damien screamed, throwing his head to the counter top.

Raw fury infiltrated him and festered within his innards. He could feel something new bubble within him, something ill-feeling and hopelessly _wrong_.

"You live in Heaven! What the fuck makes you think you can understand anything about anyone in Hell when you don't know- and will never know- the experience of being one of the Damned!?"

Damien clutched onto his head, and could feel as his top hat fell to the floor. His breathing wracked his torso, and his movement had become rigid. Without his accord, his trembling hands twitched against his scalp and scratched scabs into his hairline.

The oncoming prickle of tears further alerted him to something he hadn't felt, nor experienced, in a long time.

A breakdown. He was breaking down, and he could fully feel it as it happened. He listened as a whimper shot through his lips, a boyish cry straight out from his wretched childhood. He _hated_ it. He hated the vulnerability in his voice, the weakness his entirety had diminished to. He absolutely fucking detested it, and he pushed himself to overcome it, and to return to his previous resentful and quietly miserable existence.

But it was much too late for that now, and he felt as a warm hand was pressed kindly, but firmly onto his shaking hands.

"_Stop_!" He yelled, pushing back. The action made him dizzy, and he pushed his head into the nook of his arm and hacked painfully into the soft skin there.

"_Shit_."

He stumbled backwards until he was caught against the wall. His back snagged with a series of photographs, and they shattered down onto the floor around him. He stood there, propped against the stained walls.

"Please, it's alright." Pip soothed, moving around the counter top.

"_Shhh_, it's okay."

"No, it's really fucking _not_." Damien choked out, the cords of his voice gone raw. He grabbed at the walls, shuffling away from Pip's cautiously approaching figure.

"You're not alone anymore. I'm here for you."

"No, you're not." Damien hissed, feeling his back connect with a cupboard. "You're just doing this for yourself. You must get some sort of sick enjoyment out of this, huh? Watching strong people break."

As though he had ever been strong. As though he had ever been able to root himself to the earth, and face his problems on head-first. As though he hadn't been broken over, and over, and over again, until Damien was pretty sure there was nothing left to fix.

Pip looked at him with genuine kindness, sending a wave of nausea through Damien's body. He clutched at his throat with a shaking fist, blocking the bile.

"I want to help you." Pip told him, and the words connected with every broken nerve in Damien's broken world.

He wasn't strong.

"No."

He had never been strong.

"_No_."

Running from his problems had become a second nature to him.

"_I am done with this bullshit._"

A cupboard had opened, a knife had been brandished. Damien was unsure how or when the tool had come into his hands. Rather, it was by habit that it had found its way to his shivering finger tips.

He had never been strong, but in the weapons he chose and the actions he took with them, he could at least come out _winning_.

Pip froze, eying the knife. He made no movement against the tool, leaving his arms limp against his sides. Pip's expression neither plummeted nor was stricken by any otherwise fear- he merely gazed back up at Damien, a questioning look settled beneath the blue of his eye.

"What are you doing, Damien?" He asked, and his voice kept the same, lightweight tone that it had during the entirety of Damien knowing him.

"I thought it was sort of obvious, at this point." Damien asserted, before angling the knife into a more vulnerable position. "I'm going to kill you."

He slid the blade closer to penetration, Pip's pale skin growing flush beneath the steel tip. Pip only watched the blood lust in his eyes, his body going even more still against the weapon.

"Why would you kill me?" He questioned, "I'm already dead."

Damien shrugged, his bony shoulders thrusting upwards. The motion caught his blade, pulling it closer to his victim's neck.

"Easier to clean up." He stated. Damien followed up the ruling with a wide, empty grin.

Pip kept still, raising his eyes to stare into Damien's own. His mouth stretched downwards, and Damien could note a certain level of disapproval beneath his solid gaze. The kind of look a mother might give to a misbehaving child. Damien flinched, pulling his sight away.

"You don't want to do this, Damien." Pip reasoned.

But Damien certainly _did_.

"And what makes you think that I don't?" Damien laughed, the gesture sounding fake even to him.

"You say you're not caring, but you are. I know you are." Pip urged.

Damien's expression turned cold and repulsive, his jaw slanting forwards. He clenched harder onto the blade, his red eyes flashing.

"I've never been more sure of something in my life." Pip whispered, and finally, fucking _finally_, turned his gaze away from him. Instead, he looked down at the tips of his toes, his blue eyes filled with an overcoming sorrow.

But it didn't at all feel like a victory, and Damien could only feel a thick sickness arise in his stomach. Sure, the man was _sad_- but he still saw something in him, and Damien couldn't do anything to squash that belief. Nothing would change this man's hopeful thoughts in him- and that not only infuriated Damien, it _terrified_ him.

"So you think I'm _good_, huh?" Damien mumbled, and his knife went slack against Pip's neck.

Damien found Pip staring back into his face the moment his voice had gone soft, and the twinkle in his eyes returned in a happy fervor. With an ease, Pip started to raise his hand to him, moving it up towards the corner of his face.

"That's right, Damien." Pip whispered, elation seething through his words. His palm connected with his jaw, caressing the side of his cheek. "I think you're-"

There was no blood. This fact greatly interested Damien as he watched Pip's body collapse onto the café's floor.

The gash in his neck lead to a flow of light- not especially blinding, but one that trickled out in a notable shine. His single wing lay crushed against the bottom of his counter, the tinted feathers folded against the cheerful colors of his café. Pip's pink mouth was still open, stuck with a thought he could never finish.

With a level of calmness that horrified him, Damien set the knife back exactly where he had found it. Unsure of what to do next, he approached the fallen body and crouched down besides it.

"Welp." Damien said, no emotion passing over his face as he looked into Pip's otherwise unfeeling one. "You probably should have listened to me, huh?"

Pip did not respond. The glow in his neck appeared brighter now, and it inched out across the entirety of his body. He grew fainter with every minute, his form disappearing before Damien's eyes.

It was as though he was being burned by an endless sunshine infused into him. As though God had installed a beautiful burial with every losing angel, just in case one ever had the displeasure of crossing paths with someone like Damien.

Damien stayed for the entirety of its service.


End file.
